I am writing on a desk that took me 70 years to possess.
Note: We possess nothing; it possesses us.
Second Note: Forget the last note. I just wanted to write something profound.
Third Note: Anything that sounds profound is suspect.
Anyway, three score and ten years ago when I was four I told my grandfather that when he died that I should have his roll top desk since I was a writer.
He nodded. Perhaps thinking that at four I could not even spell my name correctly.
Confusing his silence for agreement I pressed on. I told him since he was going to die fairly soon, that it made sense to turn his desk over to me at that point in our lives.
He gave me a damn fine whipping employing a large switch that somehow reached my vulnerable little bum that I assumed was safe since I had scampered up a nearby tree.
My only girl cousin, Priscilla, who knew how to butter up Grandpa and had her eye on his roll top, ended up with the desk.
Priscilla knew I wanted that desk, knew that I was entitled to it, knew how to hurt me, so she kept Grandpa’s desk for decades. I have never known a more cruel relative than Priscilla.
The decades drifted by and finally when Priscilla downsized her home, she said I could have the desk. Before she could change her mind I hired a moving company to bring it from Las Vegas to Los Angeles.
It arrived safe and sound, all nine feet of it.
Finally. Mine. Hooray for me and all other writers on the planet.
I called Priscilla and thanked her profoundly for the roll top. I also recorded our conversation so that if she ever changed her mind I could prove to the authorites that she had given the desk to me.
She said she loved me. I told her I loved her too. I told her that I loved her more now than when she owned the desk.
She laughed hilariously and said she knew I was recording our conversation.
I hate people who do not treat writers with respect and are smarter than us.